You weren’t planning to go to the beach house.

You were supposed to be at a shoot in Venice, but it got canceled last minute because the photographer got COVID or got dumped—you’re not sure which, and you didn’t ask. Maya texted: Eli’s house tonight. Beach. Fire pit. Pretty people. Mermaid emoji. That was enough.

Now you’re here. Malibu. Salt in your hair, sunscreen in your eyelashes, wearing a bikini top you stole from a set and linen pants you keep stepping on because they’re three inches too long. You look stupid good, obviously. But your feet hurt. Your drink’s warm. And half the people here think they’re cooler than they are because they once sat near Zendaya at a restaurant.

You’re leaning on the kitchen island, fishing out the last piece of pineapple from your cup with a straw, when Maya appears next to you, grinning like she’s about to start something.

“Okay. Don’t look right now—”

You immediately look.

She smacks your arm. “I said don’t—”

“Girl, I don’t follow instructions. You know this.”

She huffs. “Billie. Eilish. Is here.”

You pause. “…Like actual Billie Eilish?”

Maya’s already nodding. “Tobias brought her. They’re friends. Or maybe exes. I don’t know—it’s Tobias. Everything’s vague.”

You glance at the patio. She’s there. Sitting on the deck edge like she owns it. Black hoodie, baggy pants, hair up. No makeup, or just the kind that looks like no makeup. She’s laughing at something Cam said, and you can’t hear her, but you feel it. That kind of laugh that makes people notice. Like she doesn’t care if you’re watching—which just makes you watch more.

You turn back to Maya. “Cool.”

“That’s all? Just cool? She has, like, Grammys.”

You shrug. “She’s pretty.”

“She’s Billie freaking Eilish.”

“I know. I’m just… not twelve.”

You say it lightly, but the truth is, you’ve never really paid attention to Billie. You know who she is—obviously. But you’ve never gone out of your way to listen to her or watch interviews. She’s always been in the background, like a painting in someone else’s house. Nice to look at, but not yours.

Until now, apparently.

Later, you’re in the laundry room looking for towels because someone spilled beer on the good couch. You swing open the door and walk straight into someone’s shoulder.

“Shit, sorry,” you laugh, backing up. Then you look up.

And it’s her.

Billie.

She’s holding a half-empty bottle and wearing socks with little sharks on them. You weren’t expecting her to be this tall. Or this… solid. You don’t know what that means, but it feels right. She looks at you like she’s deciding something.

“You’re the girl with the pineapple drink,” she says.

You blink. “…What?”

“Earlier. You were fighting it. The cup.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You try to smile. It comes out crooked. “It was a whole situation.”

She tilts her head. “Did you win?”

You lean on the washer, trying not to overthink the way her eyes are on you. “Barely. But I looked hot doing it, so. Points for that.”

She smiles. This time, it hits her eyes. It changes her face in a way that makes your chest feel… weird. Not bad. Just weird.

“You’re not like the others,” she says casually, like she’s commenting on the weather. “You don’t care who I am.”

“I mean, I know who you are,” you say, slowly. “But no. I don’t care. Should I?”

She shrugs, still smiling. “Depends who you ask.”

You don’t reply. You just look at her. She looks back. It’s quiet. Not awkward. Just that heavy kind of quiet where something might happen.

Then someone yells outside, and Billie breaks eye contact first, brushing past with the bottle in hand.

“See you around, pineapple girl.”

You don’t turn to watch her leave, but you kind of want to.

The dryer hums. Music thumps faintly through the walls. You’re not sure what just happened, or if it meant anything.

But now you’re thinking about Billie Eilish.

And not just in the she’s here kind of way. In a why did that feel like something kind of way.

And you get the feeling this weekend just got a little less forgettable.